Aging well includes recognizing problems and adapting to them.

The day after my 80th birthday, full of happy wishes, surprises and safe celebrations because of Covid, I woke up feeling fulfilled and thinking that, whatever happens from now on, it’s okay. My life is fulfilling, my to-do list is empty, my family is thriving, and if it all ends tomorrow, so be it.

Not that I expect to do anything to hasten my death. I will continue to exercise regularly, eat healthy, and strive to minimize stress. But I’m also taking stock of the many common characteristics of aging and deciding what I need to reconsider.

I found considerable inspiration and guidance in a new book, “Stupid Things I Won’t Do When I Get Old,” by Steven Petrow, written with Roseann Foley Henry.

Petrow, who is also a columnist but is nearly two decades younger than I am, began thinking about the future after observing the mistakes of his aging parents, such as waiting too long to start wearing hearing aids.

I took a similar inventory of my life and started at the top, with my hair. I had painted it for decades, getting lighter and lighter as I got older. But I noticed that during the pandemic, many people (men and women of all ages) had stopped covering gray hairs. And they looked pretty good, sometimes better than with dyed hair framing a wrinkled face.

Today, I’m graying too and loving it, though I can’t blame my dog ​​for the gray hairs on the couch anymore!

I have also resisted the common temptation to gloss over other cosmetic issues. Now, I rarely wear makeup, and my usual summer outfit remains shorts and tank tops. Wrinkles be damned. I’m proud to have them. But I will remain irritated by bad grammar, correcting language misuse whenever I can.

And I will stubbornly resist altering my habits to avoid possible tragedies predicted by others. I walk my dog ​​in the woods over slippery rocks, roots, and fallen logs, so I can enjoy his fearless energy and athleticism, and improve my balance and self-confidence.

The doctor who monitors my bone health ends each appointment with an order: “Don’t fall.” And the treacherous walk through the forest is part of my answer.

As Petrow emphasized, the fear of falling “can actually lead to more falls” because it makes us unduly anxious, hesitant, and focused on our feet rather than what’s in front of us.

My kitchen was built for a six-foot-tall cook who, thanks to scoliosis and shrinkage, is now several inches shorter. This means I often climb on stools to reach items I can’t store on a lower shelf. But this stool is sturdy, unlike a 78-year-old friend who foolishly climbed onto a chair, fell and hurt his back.

When I asked a woman my age how she was feeling, she said, “I have problems.” And I replied, “Everyone has problems. The key to successful aging is recognizing your problems and adapting to them.” I am constantly learning what I can and cannot do and asking for help or paying for it when needed.

Sooner or later, everyone has to recognize what is no longer possible and find alternatives. Years ago, body mechanics forced me to give up tennis and ice skating, and now, strenuous gardening.

I continue to do 16kg bike rides several times a week when the weather is nice, but the two week bike rides up and down hills are now history.

A dear friend in her 90s is my role model and serves as a reference for reality. When I asked her if she would accompany me on a trip abroad, she replied, “Thanks, but I’m not at the level of activity that requires anymore.”

I vowed to stop talking to anyone about my aches and pains, what Petrow called an “organ recital.” This does not cause relief – in fact, it may even make the pain worse. Rather than instilling empathy, the “organ recital” is likely to alienate most people, especially young people.

And I appreciate my younger friends, who keep me young at heart and focused on issues important to my children and grandchildren and the world they will inherit. They, in turn, say they value the information and wisdom I can offer.

I also strive to say something flattering or cheerful to a stranger every day. It brightens our lives and helps me focus on the beauty around me. But my most valuable advice is: live each day as if it were your last, with an eye on the future, if not your last, a lesson I learned as a teenager when my mother died of cancer at age 49. Her death was a catastrophic loss, one I deal with better than the little ones.

The hardest part from now on will be driving. When I was in my 70s, my kids started asking me to stop driving simply based on my age. I have not had any accidents, or even a near-miss, nor have I accumulated any fines.

Still, they increased my insurance (okay, I said, if it makes you feel good). And to get them off my back, I gave up my ten-year-old minivan and traded it in for a safer car, a Subaru Outback.

Like many other cars now on the market, the Subaru has a number of protective features that compensate for the declining senses and slower reactions that come with aging. It alerts me when there is a car, bicycle or pedestrian approaching when I am pulling out of a parking space. The engine dies when something suddenly appears or stops in front of me. If I turn my head to see something, a phrase appears flashing: “Keep your eyes on the street.”

I’m also starting to tackle another heavy issue, especially common among those who’ve lived in one place for a long time: too much stuff. I have a latent fear of “running out” and so I chronically buy and save more than enough of everything.

My late husband called our house a bomb shelter that could support us for a year.

I’m also terrible at parting with objects that might one day be useful. He told me that I reminded him of an old woman he knew who kept pieces of rope “too small to use.” I’m taking his advice seriously. Wish me luck.